"monarchs" poems
We were born into a world of shallow minds and deep disturbances of young millennials mimicking mindless mimes because we were told to stay in line but be yourself but follow me but think "originality."
A generation full of copycatting individuals with monotone mindsets mulling over social ladders and trends dictated by invisible monarchs of industry inviting and spoon feeding insecurities masked as improvements.
A generation spending more time pretending not to care than on passions stifled by our peer pressuring playmates who are all prescribed Vyvanse, Adderall, Ritalin for their incurable imaginations deemed "learning disabilities."
A generation of temporary friendships because no one can connect with each other but we can connect to the internet and chat with strangers and share thoughts, photos, and secrets to a virtual audience that loses interest in an entanglement of wires forming a noose around our sincerity.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
I.
I'm a growing polliwog,
not a butterfly--
pickled legs hang off of my fish body
and gills close off so rapidly.
A minute ago I could caress the water
and make oxygen bubble in my throat. Now
beating,
pulsing
lungs intrude
like pink bubble gum ready to pop.
What a sadistic word,
oxygen.
II.
After a little nap in a sleeping bag
butterflies are monarchs,
stained glass fluttering perfection,
symbols of luck,
symbols of
beauty,
Their wired bodies are scribbled together
like starving supermodels.
III.
And my seams are
!slowly!
pinching themselves open,
a la Frankenstein.
I want to think these body parts are mine:
A tentative nose,
very green pointillism eyes
with lashes like brittle grass or bent nails,
These white playdough thighs,
and stretchmarks like remnants of lace
chewed up by my insane canine.
Pink.
Dainty and tangled on my legs,
I think they look like jet-streams lit by sunset.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 9:39 PM UTC
I walk beneath the shadows of dragonflies and
in fields of stunted daisies
A witness to migrating monarchs
Whose voyage is eons from being completed,
when they only have 3 weeks at most to live.
I walk in pale fields of dusty sunbeams
and loud fading moonlight
Humming crickets play accompaniment
to solo pairs of feet, making way for still creeks
and large lily pads
to find a nice place to think.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Sometimes
(Just like these days)
When my heart
sang a placid song
the speaking brooks
meanders my soul
Wild hounds
hovered the meadows
And the sky was blue
ethereal as the billow
strews in shades anew
For Daybreak
is awake
On the fields
of glowing weeds
a subtle flower blooms
through the breeze
And to thee,
it kisses the gentle mist
Oh! what a Morning
Oh! what a day
When trees glistens
from beams
of never ending sun rays
made me so gay
so yes, it can be.
Sometimes
(Just like these days)
Like Diamonds & Gold
upon barren land
and rubies worn
by a maiden’s hand
Oh! what an Evening
Oh! what a way
When monarchs flew
from voluptuous crooks
dodging witches
and evil dukes
Callous, Treacherous
"A Foolish Irony"
might I say
but yes, it can be.
Sometimes
(Just like these days)
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 9:28 AM UTC
. IF I WERE A POET
The
First stanza
would be a
magnatic attic captivating
Elegant architects of
iridescence
Vividly
propelling pupils to edges
Of the schleras
Compelling pens to pages
of new eras
IF I WERE A POET
The
Second
Stanza would
Mirror Zues's
spear slicing through
tears drowning in clouds
striking fields of pens
Egniting the
capsules of
Variegated
Lands
IF I WERE A POET
The
Last stanza
would sail summers
tame winters bathe in
springs of autumn praise
deeds of the monarchs
reigning over raining
rainbows nurturing the
clouds planting wings on
the ground giving free will
to plants to seed the sky
with warmth and love
of nature's heart.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
stubbed knees
and school yard loyalty
when a cardboard box
was a castle, under trees
we played all day
till the stars sung our names
i looked to you
through the cut out doors
traced in blue
you said we can run away
in suede suitcases
filled with tubes
if you knew the game
why did you push those needles
through
i always could of loved
you more
but how did you run alone
through our castle door
hopped those speeding trains
fled to abandoned planes
and you filled those strangers beds
just to feel that lift
i was your younger self
i believed in nothing more
leave the artists
alone with their dreams
all those hurtful days
will become their masterpiece
but I'm a single wing
a monarchs arm
that rests on the peek
of our castles farm
you left me alone out here
with big shoes to fill
wearing my daisy dress
bleached with our mothers tears
i always thought you had it good
you where the silhouette
of my shadows dream
but in the end
of this threaded world
i sit on a bench
filled with city birds
and i look past the cracks
of our castle doors
to see my loneliness
apart from your beaten war.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
so i guess this is it,
the end of forever;
no one could've seen this coming.
the separation of past, present, and future.
past:
a smile from you
could spawn
a kaleidoscope of monarchs
in the pit of my stomach.
i fell in love
with the way you rested your chin
upon my head,
we were invincible.
i could have laid in your arms
for years.
i would have.
i had enough hope to feed a village.
present:
you tell me
this was long overdue,
that we're past our prime,
but there's no expiration date
on the sound of your laughter.
how do i explain to you
there are parts of my life
that move slower
without you in them?
today i am a quiet shade of blue.
future:
people will ask me
what was loving him like?
and i will smile and say
***it was as if
the sadness had never swept me
under the rug***.
i will tell them
how i felt whole,
how you gave me something
to look forward to.
i will tell them
how you lit a fire in my chest
and evacuated only yourself.
no words,
no warning,
not even the butterflies
made it out alive.
i should have known this was coming
by the way you always reeked of smoke
and bad intentions.
you see,
i confused you for someone
who would hold my hand
when things got dark.
i just wish i had some closure.
j.c.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 10:27 PM UTC
Forgetting about that uptight blight.
Emanate apathy
Unapologetically.
Cheers to you Baby Jesus,
I'm all jacked up on pink Moscato; by noon.
Without a clue of what to do
Retreat to a beach
For a gala beset by an erubescent sunset.
What marry monarchs,
All clinquant, in gold light
All turn to heathens, in the night.
Perpetually transfixed
By a curious mix of
Rhythmic eruptions & fevered delight
Like fairies & nymphs
Amidst the moon of misbehaving.
Wondering eyes are tantalized
You are luxurious, feral, **** boy personified.
I was mystified by the wild & eroticized by the style.
A Huckleberry Finn identical twin, ohhh but of course
— You had a Porsche.
But we were far from bonafide.
All is well,
Who really gives a **** about a relationship cuff…
I was inherently drawn to the effervescence, of your soul.
Together in disconnected bubbles
Like a glass of champagne,
Sparkling to the surface effortlessly.
Daytime friends and nighttime lovers;
Nympholepts in retrospect,
Carefully tip-toeing around
Blossoming curiously & compromising cantor.
Over winsome side-long looks
The burgundy hardtop drops down
Into my body & out of my mind
Tipsy daze were just foreplay
For the passionate midnight sexcapades.
A midsummer’s night moonlit dream
Manifested midst the trysts of Spring.
Every Sunday
Drinking champagne,
Not practicing self-restraint
Sneaking into private estates
Dive into the grotto pool.
Worshiping the Sun, not the saint.
My late night lover show me your wicked pagan birthright.
Two lonely hearts bonded over confessions in the dark.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
I
The shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed
Where the Virgin-Mother lay:
And now they checked their eager tread,
For to the Babe, that at her ***** clung,
A Mother’s song the Virgin-Mother sung.
II
They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng.
Around them shone, suspending night!
While sweeter than a mother’s song,
Blest Angels heralded the Savior’s birth,
Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.
III
She listened to the tale divine,
And closer still the Babe she pressed:
And while she cried, the Babe is mine!
The milk rushed faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer’s morn;
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.
IV
Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate!
That strife should vanish, battle cease,
O why should this thy soul elate?
Sweet Music’s loudest note, the Poet’s story,
Didst thou ne’er love to hear of fame and glory?
V
And is not War a youthful king,
A stately Hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;
Him Earth’s majestic monarchs hail
Their friends, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden’s love-confessing sigh.
VI
Tell this in some more courtly scene,
To maids and youths in robes of state!
I am a woman poor and mean,
And wherefore is my soul elate.
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father’s tears his child!
VII
A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,
He kills the sire and starves the son;
The husband kills, and from her board
Steals all his widow’s toil had won;
Plunders God’s world of beauty; rends away
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.
VIII
Then wisely is my soul elate,
That strife should vanish, battle cease:
I’m poor and of low estate,
The Mother of the Prince of Peace.
Joy rises in me, like a summer’s morn:
Peace, Peace on Earth! The Prince of Peace is born!
2.7k
She came upon a meadow, then she undressed;
And when she was naked, the meadow blushed.
Softly she tread, floating above the clover
Seas. Suddenly lost, bold honey bees forgot
The scent of flowers blooming. Iridescent wings,
Humming birds, monarchs, dragons, flying in
Procession and the mushrooming dew now rising
Began to swell, raining upwards into the mystic
Blue heavens and the trees beyond that clearing
Stood longingly amazed, so green their spying
Gaze, when all the myriad flowers loosely fell
And all the gathering of colours faintly dimmed.
She came upon a meadow, then she undressed;
And when she was naked, the meadow blushed.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 6:07 PM UTC
it's 11:45 pm
and you're sitting on your bed
your newly cut hair pulled back
and your first experience with fringe
occasionally dancing over your eyelids
the sounds of a tv and your mother teaching herself the clarinet
make it hard to concentrate
on the thoughts in your head
but your inner organs tell you all you need to know
your stomach flutters with a thousand monarchs
your heart soars
and your knees are weak
and you're not sure how you're going to recover
but that's okay
because maybe you don't want to
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
The wrong, as always, was the right for us,
tainted trust stained with the blood
of our previous victims;
those whims of wondering what loving touch could feel like.
It burnt us, softened us to smoke,
that floated quiet out the door before dawn could break the news
and break the illusion.
We were loners,
Devoted to laying the stones of our own path,
Never held back tangles of commitment.
Without them we were untethered dreams
that broke into reality and made ourselves the monarchs
of our lowley, lonely kingdoms.
Look what those whims
have done to our crowns;
Rusty and bent they fall hapless
on our heads as we stand before
crowds of shadows cast by our egos.
There are no romances, no capes,
Princes or heroes in this land of the leftovers.
Only us
The wrong adorned as right
The deniers of the light of love
(That weakness of giving in and giving all).
How cold it all becomes when our dreams are big
but hearts are empty.
Jun 28, 2020
Jun 28, 2020 at 4:10 PM UTC
The cheery, bronze bell heralds our coming--
A stout, brown man, a happy Buddha wearing my father’s vest
And his diminutive daughter, a caramel girl with inquisitive eyes
Marveling over the lush painted settings
The tapestries of women with slanted eyes,
Sitting precariously on rocks, surrounded by wild ocean-foam
Mermaid mistresses I imagine
With long golden nails,
A holy temple atop each brow, an adorning crown
Past the multicolored, patterned elephants
And silk orchid flowers,
Gliding across dark, cherry-chocolate wood
Lacquered, glossy as her watching eyes
As if all were coated with amber honey-sap
They take their thrones.
The windows are draped in lace and purple
The color of monarchs, even the plump, crystal glasses
Shine pale maroon, like African violets, in their elegance
And a Bengal Sugar Sweet Tiger, swims in each cup
Dusky orange, as a faded sunset
Belly up he is curled, exposing white soft cream…
And florescent rice crackers
Lie popped in a porcelain dish
Stiff and bright,
Like skeleton jellyfish, frozen
In mid-propelled undulation,
About to escape
Before they are dipped and broken
In sticky pepper, gold-gilded sauce
Rich curries; satay, with alien names
Are laid before them, feast upon feast
Savory meats and vegetables soaked in vinegars;
A parade of colors and textures and tastes
Every plate garnished, an artwork…
And while she surveys this domain,
In all its tiny grandeur, a feeling of
Dignity creeps down her shoulder, straightens her spine
To think that part of her is from such a kingdom
Though she might never see it
To still feel like royalty,
The Queen of Siam.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
Fairfax, whose Name in Arms through Europe rings,
And fills all Mouths with Envy or with Praise,
And all her Jealous Monarchs with Amaze.
And Rumours loud which daunt remotest Kings,
Thy firm unshaken Valour ever brings
Victory home, while new Rebellions raise
Their Hydra-heads, and the false North displays
Her broken League to Imp her Serpent Wings:
O yet! a Nobler task awaits thy Hand,
For what can War, but Acts of War still breed
Till injur’d Truth from Violence be freed;
And publick Faith be rescu’d from the Brand
Of publick Fraud; in vain doth Valour bleed,
While Avarice and Rapine shares the Land.
2k
At the world’s edge,
Upon a steep ledge,
I must ask the everchanging blue:
Why must I fall in love with them?
Whereupon, I break bread
With my enemies
I must ask the everchanging red:
Why must I fall in love with them?
Again, and again,
It is a dinner that ever ends
It’s the common place of disaster
A comedy of manners
Drenched in sinister designs
Beyond the grinds
Of my understanding
Of the world
It’s the Theatre of the Deranged
Laughter
So much laughter
And I don’t know what they’re after
I’m the jester
Without a wry disguise
Cleverness beneath comedic idiocy
I’m the fool
In this Theatre of the Deranged
Discussions at a lopsided table
Where only those who obey the master
May talk – all else must listen
To her, to her, to her!
Gorged on foods
I never wanted
There is nothing sweet
Left for me to eat
Mouth sealed shut
Except to laugh
But there’s nothing funny
When you’re the joke
That’s gone on too long
But the party is far from over
When you’re the court jester
To the Queen who rules the world
To the King who rules the world
To the Jack who rules the world
To the Ace who rules the world
To the suit who rules the world
To the world who rules the world
To the monarchs who uphold
The declarations of entertainment
And attend the gathering
At the edge of the world
Adorned with velvet curtains
And velvet lies
In a swirling and everchanging
Red and blue
Known only as
The Theatre of the Deranged
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
Fairfax, whose name in armes through Europe rings
Filling each mouth with envy, or with praise,
And all her jealous monarchs with amaze,
And rumors loud, that daunt remotest kings,
Thy firm unshak’n vertue ever brings
Victory home, though new rebellions raise
Their Hydra heads, & the fals North displaies
Her brok’n league, to impe their serpent wings,
O yet a nobler task awaites thy hand;
Yet what can Warr, but endless warr still breed,
Till Truth, & Right from Violence be freed,
And Public Faith cleard from the shamefull brand
Of Public Fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed
While Avarice, & Rapine share the land.
1.9k
In the age of prophylactics,
we build skyscrapers out of plastic
Agents of terror trade their bombs in for germs
So we make ourselves prisoners to serve out life terms
Unscalable walls that circle each axis
Hemispherical gates in which they have stored us
Intersecting steel Orobouros
With plenty the yeast farm to serve as our food,
and trend setting deities that change with our mood
A quarter united, we sing out a chorus
Hyper-interactive nonsense to entertain
Connected by a network direct to the brain
With war buried deep, next to monarchs and castles
Their drones target individuals to save them the hassle
While we sleep in our bubbles, ignorant of pain
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 12:16 PM UTC
Himself it was who wrote
His rank, and quartered his own coat.
There is no king nor sovereign state
That can fix a hero's rate;
Each to all is venerable,
Cap-a-pie invulnerable,
Until he write, where all eyes rest,
Slave or master on his breast.
I saw men go up and down
In the country and the town,
With this prayer upon their neck,
"Judgment and a judge we seek."
Not to monarchs they repair,
Nor to learned jurist's chair,
But they hurry to their peers,
To their kinsfolk and their dears,
Louder than with speech they pray,
What am I? companion; say.
And the friend not hesitates
To assign just place and mates,
Answers not in word or letter,
Yet is understood the better;—
Is to his friend a looking-glass,
Reflects his figure that doth pass.
Every wayfarer he meets
What himself declared, repeats;
What himself confessed, records;
Sentences him in his words,
The form is his own corporal form,
And his thought the penal worm.
Yet shine for ever ****** minds,
Loved by stars and purest winds,
Which, o'er passion throned sedate,
Have not hazarded their state,
Disconcert the searching spy,
Rendering to a curious eye
The durance of a granite ledge
To those who gaze from the sea's edge.
It is there for benefit,
It is there for purging light,
There for purifying storms,
And its depths reflect all forms;
It cannot parley with the mean,
Pure by impure is not seen.
For there's no sequestered grot,
Lone mountain tam, or isle forgot,
But justice journeying in the sphere
Daily stoops to harbor there.
1.7k
This morning, between two branches of a tree
Beside the door, epeira once again
Has spun and signed his tapestry and trap.
I test his early-warning system and
It works, he scrambles forth in sable with
The yellow hieroglyph that no one knows
The meaning of. And I remember now
How yesterday at dusk the nighthawks came
Back as they do about this time each year,
Grey squadrons with the slashes white on wings
Cruising for bugs beneath the bellied cloud.
Now soon the monarchs will be drifting south,
And then the geese will go, and then one day
The little garden birds will not be here.
See how many leaves already have
Withered and turned; a few have fallen, too.
Change is continuous on the seamless web,
Yet moments come like this one, when you feel
Upon your heart a signal to attend
The definite announcement of an end
Where one thing ceases and another starts;
When like the spider waiting on the web
You know the intricate dependencies
Spreading in secret through the fabric vast
Of heaven and earth, sending their messages
Ciphered in chemistry to all the kinds,
The whisper down the bloodstream: it is time.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
modern monarchs, recorded in technicolor
think its real, but its cake
think its real, but its fake
under the guise of god’s fate
modern monarchs, makeshift mothers
desperation at stake
where are all the fathers
under the guise of god’s fate, we falter
Jul 13, 2022
Jul 13, 2022 at 2:35 PM UTC
270
One Life of so much Consequence!
Yet I—for it—would pay—
My Soul’s entire income—
In ceaseless—salary—
One Pearl—to me—so signal—
That I would instant dive—
Although—I knew—to take it—
Would cost me—just a life!
The Sea is full—I know it!
That—does not blur my Gem!
It burns—distinct from all the row—
Intact—in Diadem!
The life is thick—I know it!
Yet—not so dense a crowd—
But Monarchs—are perceptible—
Far down the dustiest Road!
1.6k
The opening act is immorality.
Observe.
Intervals divide not naturally
but with intent. To lack, in lacking,
I express- without, of course.
Provisions lessen, starve to death,
caressing apathy.
Run.
Run away from conception, direction.
Consume nothing.
Act two is speculation.
Time expands naturally.
The godhead splinters
vomiting seedlings of Betlahm.
They breed, inhabit the womb
of the earth. Servants die
monarchs are imagined.
The crown, christened
with black opals and painite.
Louder! Louder!
Our crescendo nears!
The springs of fertility
ovulate nourishment. Absorb
these eggs and conceive
not Theseus, but Artemis
Scarcity ceases to be,
and oceans of wealth
are now begging for disposal.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
~
Fall glides in on the wings
of migrating monarchs,
stained glass visions seeking respite
from a tedious journey
signaling a change in our surroundings
Blushing, the complexion of October
slips from swimsuit informalities
to fawn layered outfits of earth tone lace
Singing of cool breeze melodies
on chrysanthemum dance steps
Sweetly autumn reaches,
filling every part of my heart,
collecting at my feet like fallen leaves
Swirling about me on winds of fleece lined affection
tickling fancies and coaxing smiles
Maple syrup hues cling to pumpkin seed desires,
painting pathways in tinted curves,
outlined in kaleidoscope siftings,
champagne ribbons winding
to stroll with the one you adore
Fireside encounters
warm of passion’s enduring flame
a’ glow on shade drawn windows
and pine needle temptations,
floating of chilled evening whispers
Wrapped in my arms, hot cider dreams
gather amidst comforting aromas,
weaving scented shadows neath wool blanket motions
and as the season changes, so do I…
I fall more in love with you
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 7:09 PM UTC
Everyone always expects a butterfly,
When they find that fearless cocoon;
Hanging over certain death,
And inviting a birth from a new womb.
They expect a sunrise to arise,
To dry out their wings and take flight.
Glittering generalities caught in icarus's wings.
People expect the best from your worst,
And you'll expect that that's best.
Yet this expectation leaves us cursed.
Like the monarchs, who dance under the sun;
When moths are birthed, they dance under a dead one.
I reject the notion of expected beauty,
I reject this reality that-
I need to dance in the sun,
Shine bright beneath the trees,
And fly high to melt my wings,
I despise this idea
Because like the moths,
I will dance among the stars
Between the moons of Jupiter,
And sing with selene in the night.
I will burst from my cocoon
Not in your beauty,
But in mine
Jul 25, 2021
Jul 25, 2021 at 10:52 PM UTC
A mighty river sings her song
Fast flowing waters swell her form
Her mesmerizing sound envelopes the night
As trees upon her banks,
Dressed in full regalia,
Dance in the pale moonlight...awaiting
The Dawn of a New Day
Eastern Phoebe, first to awaken heralds the new day
Her short bursts stir those in the forest
Robin commences his morning song
Resonating melodic perfection
Peeking above the horizon, the Sun
Orange hue bathing Mother Earth
Warms Terra Firma
Her coat of green
Covered in morning dew
Glistens beneath the radiant Sun
Mother Bear makes her way along the river's bank
Carefully teaching her cubs their daily lessons
She is key to their survival
She is their world
Monarchs and Swallowtails, warmed by the sun
Flutter by, tasting the sweet floral nectar
Brown eyed Daisies...await
The flight of the bumble bee
Hummingbirds dart and dance from flower to flower
Delicately tasting the sweet nectar
As they so precisely hover
The morning breeze stirs the trees awake
The sound...tranquil as crashing waves upon the shore
Muffle the stealthy steps of Lobo
And lift Eagle to wondrous heights
As a baby fawn lies motionless, scentless, while mother doe stands watch
Welcome 2 the Dawn...of a New Day...
...of a New Hope
(c) 2013 Shawn White Eagle
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC